


The Art of Seating Etiquette

by inadaze22



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A fake date...or is it?, Actions over research, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Bars and Pubs, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Dates, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, HP Fluff Fest 2020, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hermione Granger Being a Know-It-All, Hermione has a Plan, Hermione has a photographic memory, Humor, Minor Harry Potter/Pansy Parkinson, Mutual Pining, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, POV Hermione Granger, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Post-Hogwarts, Random information, Sort Of, Unspeakable Hermione Granger, smut with feelings, trivia night, trivia quizzes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26068000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inadaze22/pseuds/inadaze22
Summary: Hermione believes that every problem has a solution, and that solution can be found in a book. That is, until Draco starts sitting to her right every Friday. She has no answers until help comes in the form of an unlikely source: Ron Weasley.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 150
Kudos: 1496
Collections: Best of DMHG, DH, HP Fluff Fest 2020, Past read





	The Art of Seating Etiquette

There wasn’t a single question that Hermione Granger couldn’t answer.

Harry and Ron chalked it up to her brilliance, love of research, and affinity for solving problems. Everyone else figured it was because of her insatiable thirst for knowledge. Lupin had even called her _The Brightest Witch of Her Age_. And all of that was true, but what people didn’t know was that there _literally_ was not a question that Hermione couldn’t answer. Every problem had a solution that could be found in a book, which was ideal because Hermione had almost _perfect_ recall. 

At least when it pertained to the written word.

It wasn’t a secret, but no one had bothered to ask, so Hermione had never divulged that the reason she preferred books to movies was that she could remember every word she had ever read. 

Every book, magazine, newspaper, brochure, signpost, menu— _everything_ she read, Hermione could recall with perfect clarity. It was a gift and a curse. A gift because she was like a human encyclopedia with the ability to summon any and every bit of knowledge with a snap of her finger and use it to save their arses. But it was a curse because that same ability applied to the absolute mundane, trivial facts and bits of knowledge that never _ever_ came up in ordinary conversation. 

Case in point?

When she was ten, her mother gave her a book of random facts to read… just for _fun._

It was _not_ fun.

More like torture because _now_ Hermione knew that the human eye could focus on fifty different objects every second; that it was the second most complex organ in the human body—right behind the brain. Oh, and the eye could distinguish approximately ten million different colours. And so much more. 

_Too_ much more. It was useless information forever stuck in her head like a bad song.

At any given moment, there were several million specks of information floating around in her brain, ready to come out with only the slightest provocation. Hermione had spent years fighting it—mostly failing—but it had been proven useful during the seven years she’d spent keeping Harry alive. So that worked. 

After Voldemort dropped dead, her skill had found a renewed purpose on a random night in June, when they accidentally wound up in a nondescript Muggle pub on trivia night. 

Harry and Ron wanted to leave to find a better pub, where they could drink and complain about work in the Auror’s Office, but Hermione convinced them to stay. Just that once. Just to watch a round of trivia.

She answered the questions to herself, quietly from the comfort of their table. 

It gave her the chance to recall some of the more useless things she’d read over the years.

And use them—for once in her life.

However, when the barmaid offered half-off drinks to trivia participants and free drinks for the entire night for the winner, Ron and Harry practically fell over themselves to grab a participant’s card. And left it all to her…

* * *

By the time Harry invited Draco for the first time, they hadn’t paid for drinks in a year. 

The two had just become reluctant partners after Draco’s was side-lined due to injury and Ron had quit to help out George at the joke shop full-time. So, really, it was all _his_ fault. But naturally, when Ron found out about Harry’s invitation, fifteen minutes before the start of trivia, his reaction had been visceral.

And loud.

“You did _what?_ ” Ron’s outburst caused the people at the table next to them to give him pointed looks that he clearly didn’t care about. “You invited _Malfoy_? The Great Git?”

Harry merely shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck as he awkwardly grimaced. “Well… since you left to help George, he’s been assigned as my partner and has been for a few weeks now so I’m trying to… figure it out. I guess.” 

“Since they’ll be working together for the foreseeable future, it only makes sense to extend the metaphorical olive branch,” Hermione’s contributed, an opinion that resulted in a glare she returned brazenly. “You’re being a _child_. Besides, he probably won’t come anyway.” 

But he did.

Draco arrived just when the proctor asked question five: _How many words does the Scottish-Gaelic language have for snow?_

Four hundred and twenty-one. Her personal favourite: _Flindrikin_ , which meant ‘a slight snow shower’. 

Dressed in black trousers and a comfortable olive jumper, Draco sat down in the only empty chair at the table—to Hermione’s right—at the exact moment the announcer gave the correct answer. The entire room groaned miserably when she was awarded the only point. Harry and Ron cheered obnoxiously—a bit tipsy by that point.

The regulars knew her well, and had joined forces—sometimes with help from outsiders they’d drafted to their cause—determined to take her down. The bar owner loved Hermione for all the business she’d brought in. Still, she welcomed every challenge and enjoyed putting her photographic memory to good use. 

As far as the challenge at her table? 

_That_ went about as well as it could.

Ron had remained unusually quiet while drinking his free beer and glaring at Draco suspiciously. Harry, bless him, had tried— _and failed_ —to make small talk with his surprisingly taciturn partner. 

Hermione, meanwhile, had continued to demolish the competition, without so much as a glance in Draco’s direction each time she left to hand in her answer. She did, however, notice that he kept peering over at her card as she wrote her answer, but had no idea why. 

After four more quiz questions, Harry gingerly approached his first conversation topic. 

A safe one: work.

“What do you think about the Boussier case?” 

The attempt was an unmitigated failure. 

Draco’s response was clipped, yet surprisingly civil. “I don’t think about work outside of… well, _work_.” He glanced at the answer card; she was filling in the response to the next question. “Why does _anyone_ need to know how long it takes to hard boil an Ostrich egg?” He frowned at her. “Better yet, how is it possible that _you_ know so many obscure facts about a wide variety of subjects?”

“It’s because she _reads_ , Malfoy.” Ron’s face was twisted in the sneer he’d been fighting to hold back most of the night. Now it was free. She and Harry exchanged looks from across the table before she left them all to turn in her answer.

By the time Hermione returned, Draco was gone and Ron had ordered another free beer. When Hermione asked about his departure, wondering who she needed to lecture, Harry glanced over his shoulder in bemusement. “He just got up and left.” He shrugged. “I mean, at least I tried.”

* * *

Draco surprised them all the next week by showing up only half an hour after their arrival. He sat to Hermione’s right, said nothing to either Harry or Ron, but snuck glances at her answer key.

“The _i_ goes before the _t_ in veritas.” It was the first thing he’d said that evening. Hermione started to argue, but… Well, actually, he was right. She fixed it, much to the astonishment of her two gaping friends. 

“What?” She eyed them both. “I’ll have you both know I _am_ capable of making errors.”

“You just _don’t_ —” Ron sputtered. 

“Well, not often,” Harry finished.

Before she could leave, Draco asked, “How do you know Latin?”

Hermione folded her arms across her chest. “How do _you_ know Latin? Better yet, why does it matter how _I_ know?”

“I learned as a child.” He shrugged, then fixed her with a hard, suspicious glare. “Now you?”

“I read it in a book.” Then she left to turn in her answer. 

It was correct.

When she returned to the table, there were no more questions, just looks, which Hermione was used to ignoring. The barmaid had brought him a beer, courtesy of the free drink allowance from her winnings. However, when Draco took a sip, his only reaction was an eye-twitch and a request for a glass of top shelf scotch, neat, with a drop of water. He finished his drink around the time of the final question, and when Hermione won, as always, he left without so much as a _goodbye—again._

* * *

What they didn’t know at the time was that night had been the beginning of a _new_ tradition. 

The great misconception about traditions was that they remained the same over time, when in fact, they didn’t. The changes might have been subtle, but nothing truly remained static; everything was in a constant state of flux. Traditions were created, evolved, recombined, and reinvented. And in two years, their little pub trivia night had done all four. 

Because no one trusted Hermione to create a name, Harry had dubbed their Friday tradition ‘ _The Weekend Kick-off_.’ Ron thought the name was stupid, but hadn’t bothered to suggest another one. 

It evolved past the four of them and was now up to ten: Blaise, Pansy, Neville, Luna, Susan, and Theo. They had taken a vote and combined the night with their original purpose of venting after work and drinking while doing it. And reinvented it in a larger bar that had a different theme each Friday of the month: Trivia, Karaoke, Cocktail Social, and on the last Friday of each month, a Pub Crawl, where all the pubs would open their doors to any and everyone.

Hermione had been sad to say goodbye to their little pub with the free beer, but a little change never hurt. 

During the last two years, Harry and Draco had changed and become friends. Well, _friends_ in the sense that their insults and jabs were now thinly veiled instead of _thickly spread_ , their respect for each other silent and begrudging, which had made them better partners in the field. Ron had stopped glaring at him around the same time Draco had stopped leaving abruptly. He was still more Harry’s friend than theirs, but they’d formed something of an easy truce. 

As for her, well, Draco seemed more inclined to listen to her speak than engage in meaningful conversation. He still had suspicious questions about her random knowledge and he still looked at her answer key, making corrections every now and then, but that was it. They weren’t quite friends, but more than acquaintances by proxy. Hermione had found, through a series of observations and overheard conversations, that they had similar tastes in books and a mutual love for magical artefacts. 

But something that _hadn’t_ changed in the last two years? 

The fact that Draco _always_ sat to her right. 

_Always_.

It had taken three months of Fridays for her to notice, another Friday for her to actively start drafting a hypothesis as to why, and five more to begin testing her random theories with a series of experiments. 

In the beginning, Hermione started arriving first, only to realise Draco was timelier than Ron and Harry, even on a good day. No matter how many empty seats there were, he still took the one next to her and they sat in near silence until everyone else turned up.

“Where’s Harry?” she asked to break the quiet between them.

“Paperwork. He asked me to secure the table, but you managed to beat me here.”

* * *

The next week, she purposefully arrived late, for some unknown reason, the only seat available was the one next to his left— _her right_. And her drink order was waiting for her. 

“Did you order this for me?” Hermione asked Pansy, who sat directly across from her. Draco was talking to Blaise and Harry about Quidditch.

“I got here after Draco and it was already there, so I just assumed you stepped out after ordering. However, if you’re not going to drink it, I could—”

The wizard himself was glaring daggers at his friend. “Order your _own_.”

Pansy sulked, but she flagged down the barmaid for another.

* * *

During the rare occasions when Draco was tardy and their table was filled, he would squeeze in to her right, even when there was little space. Everyone simply _adjusted_. 

That seat was his, and most of their friends knew it. 

The _why_ was the conundrum. 

The final question. 

Hermione had read everything available on the topic of seating arrangements—from cultural and political reasons to fictional theories—in order to find any sort of significance to his behaviour to answer her question, but she hadn’t been successful. Rankled by her failure, she had then shifted her reading to a topic she had never bothered with before: _body language_.

In particular, to the random body part that apparently—unbeknownst to Hermione Granger—told _a lot_ about someone.

Their legs. 

When she read that legs were honest, it hadn’t made much sense, until she read on a bit farther. There was a saying: _“Far from the eyes—far from the heart”_ which meant that the farther an object was from someone’s eyes, the less it concerned them. Well, legs _were_ the farthest limbs away from the brain, so the task of watching _his_ seemed easy enough. 

That was until she discovered that Draco’s legs were a lot like him: a _massive_ contradiction.

But that also went without saying… because he was _Draco_.

He never sat still during their Weekend Kick-off, always shifting from having both feet on the ground (neutral, stable, focused) to locking his ankles beneath his chair (self-restraint, tense, barely suppressed frustration) to resting one foot over his thigh (self-assured, cocky, competitive). He sometimes bounced his left leg—that was often associated with jittery, nervous energy. 

After months of collecting data that didn’t make much sense, she mentally marked the entire experiment rubbish and gave up. 

Draco Malfoy was a question she would never answer.

_Why?_

Because the code to unlock him didn’t exist in any book. And that…

That _really_ bothered her because, memory aside, she liked things that made sense: logic and lessons, rules and discipline. And he frustrated the hell out of her because _he didn’t fit._

Hermione knew her feelings were irrational—and annoyingly emotional—but it didn’t stop her from thinking about her unsolvable question during the moments when everything was still and quiet around her. With her work in the Department for Mysteries, she didn’t have a lot of spare time to think, but sometimes that grating irritation that she associated with Draco would tap her on the shoulder just to remind her that it was there. 

Occasionally, though, entire weeks would pass when she didn’t feel it, when she could look to her right, see him sitting there, and not be annoyed by the unanswered question. But lately, it seemed that those normal days became fewer and farther between as she began to look at him less like an impossible problem…

And more like an unsolvable _man_.

Honestly, she had never considered _him,_ but in all fairness, Hermione was too busy to consider _anyone_.

She’d watched him since the start with a sort of detached curiosity that she originally believed had a lot to do with the fact that she couldn’t figure him out.

But then, seven Fridays ago, Harry was loudly telling the table about an incident involving the Minister from Germany’s lost Kneazle that had nearly created an international incident. When he got to the part about it being found stuck in a wall, Draco tilted his head back and laughed… 

And Hermione was transfixed to the point that she just _stared_ at him. 

She observed his face: his expression, his smile, the slope of his nose, the pale curve of his mouth. Her eyes wandered lower, taking notice of everything she hadn’t picked apart already during her analysis of him based on all the books she’d read, and Hermione felt a warm pit growing in her belly as she realised something both important and mind-altering. 

Her hypotheses, research, experimentations, and data concerning Draco’s peculiar seating arrangement had been a distraction from her _actual_ problem: she was _attracted_ to him. Oh, and even better: that irritation, which had stemmed from the gigantic question mark over him, actually had little to do with the fact that she _couldn’t_ solve him, but rather because she _wanted_ to…

_Badly._

For all the reasons a woman wanted to solve the mystery of a man.

Now that the doors to her mind had been blown the hell open, there was no going back from there. As soon as she could, Hermione had dug her mental research out of the rubbish and looked it over with a different set of eyes. New eyes that had a different perspective. Eyes that wanted to find the bits of data that would answer the new question.

Did he feel the same?

She started watching him on Fridays for clues, but his body language was as inconsistent as ever. In fact, she was just about to give up on finding the answer to her second question when help had come when she’d least expected it—on Karaoke night—from the unlikeliest source:

_Ron._

* * *

  
  


“I know it’s random,” Ron said, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt—an act that made her frown in disapproval, “but Charlie wants to know if he can take you out. He would’ve asked himself, but you’ve both been busy, so I told him I’d ask you first.”

The first emotion she felt was _surprise_. Charlie had left the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary a few years after the war, moving to the one in Wales to be closer to home. Hermione only saw him when she showed up for brunch at the Burrow or birthday parties. 

She had no idea he was interested.

The second was _curiosity_ , but that came after Draco—who was ranting about new procedures that were time-consuming and annoying—uncharacteristically stumbled on one word. He went from sitting with both feet on the ground to locking his ankles under his chair.

_Interesting._

She looked at Ron, an idea forming. “Let me think about it.” 

And did just that.

* * *

By the end of their Weekend Kick-off, Hermione had a plan. 

She put that plan to action when their group started their normal process of separating into two: those who went home and those who linked up, in various combinations, to continue their efforts to make the most of the night. 

Normally, Hermione was in the first group. 

That night, however, she lingered, because she never knew which group Draco would join; his inclination for social activities was as inconsistent as his body language. Harry and Pansy had long since left for an evening of… whatever they got up to. She shuddered to think. The rest of their group was at the other end of the table trying to vote on if they were going to another pub or a nightclub. The latter was winning when Hermione exhaled her nerves and turned towards the wizard sitting to her right. 

“Shouldn’t you cast your vote?”

Draco, who had been sitting in thoughtful silence next to her for several minutes, finished his second whisky—made precisely the same way every time—and shrugged. “I’m going home tonight.”

“Oh?” Hermione twiddled her thumbs in an attempt to expend some of her jittery energy. “Busy weekend, then?”

Her question made him look at her suspiciously, and she realised less was probably more. They had never indulged in lengthy small talk—at least not with each other. His grey eyes were sharp and piercing, but he answered her question with a careful drawl that sounded tense. “Not particularly.”

“I was wondering if you could do me a favour. Possibly tomorrow, if you’re not busy.”

His eyebrows shot up. _“You_ want a favour. From _me?”_

“Yes.” She nodded and wished she hadn’t finished her drink so hastily. There was nothing to draw out her question, but really, delaying would increase her chances of failure, so she just let it go. “Ron told me that Charlie wants to ask me on a date.” 

She was watching carefully enough to see a tiny spark in his eyes just before his face turned perfectly blank. 

“I’d ask Ron, but that would be hilariously awkward for us both. Harry’s paired at the hips with Pansy. I’m pretty certain the rest of our friends are paired off in some way, so there’s only you. Not that you’re my _only_ option, but we’ve known each other a while and you won’t hesitate to give your honest opinion and—”

“Granger, where are you going with this?”

“I was wondering if we could go on a practice date. Perhaps tomorrow?” 

Draco blinked at her, but said nothing, his face schooled in perfect neutrality.

She couldn’t even begin to guess what he was thinking because his face was so aloof and closed up that there hadn’t been a single ripple in response. Hermione was typically pretty self-assured, but the black hole of nothing coming from him sucked away any confidence she’d had coming into this. A feeling of awkwardness rose in her, and Hermione gave a nervous, loose smile as she started to rub the back of her neck. 

But in for a Knut and all that rot.

“As much as I hate admitting it, I haven’t been on a proper date in _years_. I’m a bit clueless.”

Draco paused at her final word and chuckled before placing his glass on the table. “That’s not a word I’ve ever associated with you.”

“Is that a compliment?”

He blinked at her, but didn’t directly answer her question. “Aren’t there countless books and articles on dating? Witch Weekly is always doing something or other on the topic.” Draco waved his hand. “Between Muggle literature, wizarding texts, and magazine articles from both, it’s possible that with a little research, you’ll likely become more knowledgeable on the topic than _I_ could ever be. It wouldn’t take you long either… with your photographic memory.”

It was Hermione’s turn to school her features into a blank mask of calm composure when his eyes locked on hers. The other option was to gape at the fact that not only had Draco figured her out, but he’d also learned the proper— _Muggle_ —name for it. “How long have you known?”

“For certain? Right now. But I’ve been suspicious since I came to trivia the first time and you knew exactly how many words the Scottish had for snow.”

“ _Flindrikin_ is my favourite.” 

“A slight snow shower.” When she cocked her brow in disbelief, he levelled her with a look. “Don’t get too excited, Granger. I looked it up.” _And remembered it for two years,_ but Hermione didn’t point that out because it was inconsistent—both his body language, which wasn’t giving anything away, and the look on his face, which had melted from composed to chuffed disbelief. “I never had a hope in the world of beating you in marks, did I?”

“No.” Hermione simply shrugged, a growing smile on her face. Slightly more relaxed, she rested her elbow on the table and her head on her fist. “I suppose not.” She cut her eyes over to their group of friends, who were still arguing about their next stop. Susan was the lone holdout on wanting to go to a Muggle nightclub rather than one of the spots that had opened in Knockturn Alley. 

When he followed her eyes with a slow turn of his head, Draco spotted Theo staring at them curiously… and glared until the other wizard smirked and went back to his own conversation.

“Your statement was wrong, by the way.” Hermione watched the exchange between them with barely restrained curiosity. 

Draco swivelled back to her. “Oh?”

“Yes,” she said in an attempt to get them back on track with her plan. 

Hermione straightened her back, turning so she was straight in her chair. After pointlessly nudging her empty glass away from her, she turned her eyes back to Draco only to find his attention solely on her. His intensity nearly made her falter, but Hermione quickly recovered. 

“There’s a distinct difference in reading about something and experiencing it for yourself. That’s why I asked for your _help_ rather than dissect every book on the subject. Sometimes, there needs to be action over research.” She sighed and was a little too honest when she said, “As much as it pains me to say, some answers can’t be found in a book.” 

And she was looking at one of them.

With his eyes narrowed and his mouth thinned as if lost in some strenuous thought, Draco stared at her for a long moment. “You just might have a point, Granger.”

Her heart leapt in her chest, but she kept herself from sounding too excited. “So… you’ll help me?”

“Yes.”

* * *

The original plan had been for them to meet at a restaurant, but Hermione woke up to an Owl outside her window with a letter that only had his address, a time, the sort of attire requirements (casual), and an odd request that she not read any books on etiquette or dating habits. 

Or any book at all.

She complied.

After confirming her name to security, Hermione rode the lift to his penthouse. Draco lived in the centre of Muggle London, probably in the poshest flat she’d ever seen. It made sense in a way; Draco was as intensely private as he was independently wealthy, and living in a Muggle high rise was something so unexpected that it almost guaranteed no one would find out.

As she watched the numbers on the lift climb, she tried to exhale her nerves and smooth the wrinkles from her dress. It was casual, as requested: a floral sundress with hues of pinks, yellows, greens, and blues. She wore sandals and her hair was in loose curls down the middle of her back. In her hand was her trusty beaded bag that had her wand and virtually anything she needed to stay alive for several months at a time.

Force of habit.

The doors opened right into the grand entrance of a flat that was far too large for one person.

Draco was waiting for her, wearing clothes far more relaxed than she was used to: light grey trousers and a white shirt, his hair casually styled. Hermione thought he looked ready to play cricket or something equally as posh as she stepped out the lift and the doors shut behind her. All he needed was a sweater tied over his shoulder.

She liked it.

Liked _him_.

He was staring at her intensely, hands at his side. “Granger,” he finally greeted, looking her up and down for the second time. “You look…” His eyes lifted to hers and Hermione didn’t breathe as she waited for him to finish his statement. “This is the part where your date should compliment you.”

She frowned. “Aren’t _you_ pretending to be my date?”

“Yes, but you never struck me as the sort that sought compliments.” Draco stepped closer, looking down at her. His voice dipped and the tone made her tense. “Nevertheless, you _do_ look lovely.”

Hermione blinked in response. “You, too.” She froze. “That’s what I should say to my date, correct?”

“Yes.” 

And with that, he stepped away, giving her an opportunity to look around as far as she could see. She made a quick assessment. “Your flat is as posh as you pretend you’re not.”

At that, Draco smirked. “It’s been in my family since the building opened.”

“I don’t find that surprising at all.” When he extended his arm to her, she tilted her head. “Why would you—”

“You asked for the real dating experience, Granger.” Draco levelled her with a look. “I’m giving it. Would you like a tour while dinner is sitting under warming charms?”

Slowly, she slipped her arm in his and let him show her the way. His flat was spacious, but not as ornate as she had expected from someone with his pedigree. It was nicely furnished and decorated, but it didn’t appear he spent much time in the main area. Except the kitchen. It was open to the living room, boasting a large island with hanging lights and barstools. There were recipe books stacked on the counter next to the refrigerator, signs that he actually cooked himself; it fit with the smell that permeated the air. 

The tour stopped at the kitchen table, where dinner was waiting for them, nicely decorated for two with a single candle lit. Instead of the chairs across from each other, they were side by side. 

Hermione blinked up at the wizard whose face gave nothing away. “This is—”

“It’s what your date _should_ do, should he decide to cook you dinner.” Draco slipped his arm from hers and pulled a chair out for her. The action made Hermione’s eyes cut from the chair, to him, then back to the chair, and _finally_ back on him… where they stayed. 

She knew she looked suspicious as hell because he scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I’m only doing what _any_ proper gentlemen _should_ do on a date.” He narrowed his eyes. “Honestly, Granger, I’m a little concerned about your taste in men if something so minor shocks you that much.”

In response, Hermione glared back at him, then sat down, holding on to the sides of the chair as she adjusted her own damn seat. Draco meanwhile… sat to her right. After a brief moment of consideration, she picked up her fork and ate Pâtes aux Lardons, which tasted… Actually, it tasted pretty fantastic. 

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

Draco paused with glass at his lips. “I’m a man of many talents.” 

“And arrogant, too.” 

But she’d always appreciated that about him anyway.

* * *

Silence fell between them as they used the time to eat. 

The food was great, but the bits of conversation between each bite of food was infinitely better. When they were both finished, Draco poured them each a second glass of wine and offered his hand.

She took it and allowed him to lead her to the sofa, glass in hand. Draco’s legs were in a neutral position, she noted. Instead of silence, which was their norm, he clinically stated, “This is where you and your date should engage in small talk. I’ve seen you prattle on about everything, and given your memory, I’m sure you won’t struggle with your date on this front.”

“Fine, then you should tell me about yourself,” Hermione challenged.

And he accepted.

Conversation came easier than she’d expected. Draco told her all the things he’d learned second-hand and a bit more. They steered clear of complex topics, like his parents, but spoke at length about their differences more than their similarities. It was more interesting to know that while they both liked books, they had wildly different tastes in novels. Not to mention, wildly different views on acceptable potions for students to brew and differing opinions about the Department of Mysteries not being required to answer to the Ministry. 

She found Draco’s quiet love for Muggle sports and movies fascinating after learning of Harry’s involvement. He was surprised by the fact that those two subjects were actually gaps in her seemingly well-rounded knowledge. Draco was _still_ frowning after her confession. “You mean to tell me that you’ve _never_ read _anything_ about football?”

“Never had a reason to.” Hermione shrugged, flushed from the wine and the fact that his leg was pressed against hers.

Then he leaned a little closer, which made her smile slide right off her face as her focus narrowed on him. “Looks like I can teach you something, after all.” 

“I’d—” She cleared her throat. “I’d like that.”

* * *

  
  
And while Hermione’s attraction to the wizard slowly grew, she all but forgot that they were practicing until he said, “I think you’re good at small talk.”

“What about serious talk?” She noted just how comfortable she felt in his presence. Not enough to touch, but definitely enough to strongly consider it. Hermione chuckled at the thought. “Perhaps, I should try having that sort of discussion with you, as you’re a difficult man to please.”

Draco’s eyes were fixed on her, his voice low as he said, “I’m not as difficult as you think.”

She raised a single brow, cheeks warm. “But you aren’t easy.” 

“No, I’m not, but where’s the fun in that?”

At that, the charged moment ended. Hermione rolled her eyes. “I sincerely think—”

“That’s your problem, Granger. You think too much. You _know_ too much.” The look in his eyes was as heated as his words. “Or, because you can remember anything you read, you _think_ you do.”

“There’s plenty I don’t know, and while we’ve touched on a few of those things, there’s even more I haven’t read in books.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Like…” Hermione boldly shifted a little closer to him on the sofa, placing her hand on his knee. Draco’s eyes drifted to her hand, then back to her face. “Why you always sit to my right.” When he opened his mouth in rebuttal, she lifted a finger. “Don’t say that you don’t, because I have at least two years of evidence that points to the contrary.”

His mouth quirked. “You’ve been watching me for two years?”

The argument died in her throat. “Um. Well. I—”

“Go on.” Draco leered, amused but also intrigued. 

The look on his face was so smug that it made her frown. “ _Or_ you could tell me why.”

He considered her for a moment, then shrugged. “From your right, I can see your answers to trivia. I can see the way you glare at anyone when they ask you a moronic question. It’s how I know that your left hand is dominant, but you don’t write with it. It’s how I figured out your memory. One of the trivia questions was only possible to answer if you had memorised the menu and the only thing you stumble on is artwork or film…”

Now it was her turn to look smug. “I didn’t know you paid such close attention to _me,_ Draco.”

He said nothing at first, then rolled his eyes. “I’m observant, Granger, and I have more than two brain cells. Why don’t you tell Potter and Weasley about your memory? Are you ashamed?”

“I’ll never be ashamed of my intelligence. It’s who I am and, coupled with Harry’s luck and perseverance, it’s how we all managed to survive.” Hermione shrugged. “It simply never came up. It’s not a secret, not like the fact that you and Harry hang out outside of work and Weekend Kick-off.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “He’s a persistent bastard.”

“That’s shagging your best friend.”

He cringed. “Don’t remind me.”

They both laughed.

* * *

“Are you having a good time?” Draco asked several minutes later. “This is something your date might ask from time to time, just for confirmation.” 

His arm slipped from its spot on the back of the sofa, now resting around her shoulders. She didn’t complain, only kept her hand on his knee while she finished the rest of her liquid courage. “I am,” she answered honestly. “I’m also wondering why you’re single. Outside of the fact that you can be an unmitigated bastard, you’re obviously good at this.”

Draco chuckled. It was low and warm and she felt it run down her spine. “I’m not a bastard to _you_.”

Which was accurate. 

“I think this is the most you’ve ever spoken to me at once,” Hermione pointed out. “Why is that?” 

“I don’t hate you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t,” she admitted. “I figured that you weren’t completely repulsed… with the way you always sit next to me.”

* * *

“When was your last date, Granger?” Draco asked as he refilled their glasses before settling back next to her, his arm more comfortably around her.

For a brief moment, she actually forgot. “Ron?”

There was a moment of silence. “Ah, lingering feelings?”

Hermione blanched. She and Ron had only dated for a few months after the war before mutually calling it quits. She’d had a few casual encounters in the years since, but nothing stuck. And that wasn’t Ron’s doing. Only hers. “Gods no, I’ve just been busy with work.”

The blond wizard made a small noise in the back of his throat. She eyed him closer, noting the careful expression on his face. “And so you decide to break the streak with his brother?”

Hermione gave a shrug. “I haven’t said yes yet.” But then challenged him. “When was _your_ last date?”

“About six months ago.” Draco pursed his lips. “Blind date set up by Blaise. She wasn’t my type.”

“Oh.” Hermione cleared her throat before she asked, “What sort of witch _are_ you attracted to?”

Draco took a drink of his wine glass and she watched his Adam’s apple bob from the effort. “If you have to ask that on a date, Granger,” he paused and lifted his eyes to meet hers, “then you should consider the possibility that you aren’t dating the right person.” 

“Fine, I’ll rephrase. _Who_ is your right person?”

He gave a lazy shrug, set his wine glass on the table, and stood up, offering Hermione his hand. “It’s dark enough now, do you want to see the city at night?” Though she wasn’t a fan of heights, she placed her hand in his and stood up. She noted, with a raise of her brow, that he laced their fingers together. “It’s what your date should do.” 

“Oh.”

Draco didn’t let it go. 

They stood by the window with floor to ceiling glass and observed the city. London at night was spectacular, with its bright lights and winding streets that twinkled down below. A storm was brewing in the west, rolling slowly over the sky. It would definitely rain. And she wondered what the rain looked like from such a great height.

“Do you like it?” His voice was lower than it should be, but not as intimate as his touch, not as intimate as his thumb swiping the valley between her thumb and forefinger. 

“I confess I don’t like heights much, but it’s lovely.” 

As she glanced down at their entwined fingers, then back at the silent wizard that stared out at the darkness, Hermione found her thoughts shifting gears, wondering about something else. Something not so forbidden or unexplored. 

“There’s something else” When he froze next to her, Hermione braved on. “What about kissing?”

Draco cut his eyes from the city to hers. “You want me to kiss you?

“As practice, of course, for the future. Just so I know I’m doing it correctly and what I should expect from him.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure Weasley wasn’t very proficient in this area.”

“He wasn’t bad, it’s just been a while.” Which _was_ true. “Can’t find everything you need to test your skill in a book. Action over research, remember?”

There was something heated in his eyes, fluid in his expression. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I am.”

“And you want me to—”

“Yes.” _Probably more than anything._

Draco let go of her hand and stepped back and away, leaving her standing there alone. Before she could wonder if she’d made a misstep, she felt him at her back. But still, she turned to face him, and he was very, _very_ close. 

“What he should do is lean in like this.” Draco loomed a little closer, which automatically made her step back, bumping against the window. There was a smirk playing on his lips and a husk in his voice. “ _Don’t run_.”

“I’m not.”

“Then stay still. This is what you wanted, am I correct?” 

She held his gaze. “Yes.”

Draco’s right hand went to the curve of her waist and he pulled her close, until she was flush against him. “This is where he should rest one hand.” He slid that hand behind her, low on her back, his touch warm through the fabric. “The other, he should use it to tilt your chin up like this.” That hand brushed against the side of her neck, making her shiver, before Draco tipped her chin up. His voice grew softer, more intimate. “You should put your hand on my chest right here.” Hermione did as instructed, only hesitating once. “Like that, feel my heartbeat and look in my eyes.” 

And though he sounded extremely composed, his heart was racing probably as hard as hers. She started to look down at her hand where it pressed against his chest, but he stopped her. “Don’t look away. Watch me. Like this.”

“And then what?” She cursed her voice for sounding as shaky as she felt.

Draco leaned in until she could feel his breath on her cheek. “Then he should kiss you.” But instead of doing that, his mouth moved to her ear as he whispered, “But I won’t.” 

Disappointment rose in her, stemmed from the anticlimactic moment. “Why not?”

“Because…” He was still _so_ close. “I won’t kiss you as _he_ should, when I’d much rather kiss you how _I_ want to—how I’ve wanted to for a while now.”

For a moment, Hermione was surprised, stunned speechless. When he pulled back to gauge her expression, she allowed her smile to grow. “Then you should just do it.”

Grey eyes flickered to her mouth then back up. “Why?”

“Because I could use the practice. _For you_.”

His jaw jumped as he dropped the hand from her face, ghosting it down her arm until his fingertips touched hers. “And Weasley’s brother?”

“Only if I was wrong,” Hermione confessed, lifting on the tips of her toes, lips brushing against his as she asked, “Am I wrong?”

“No.”

And then finally— _finally_ —he kissed her.

Hermione never once allowed herself to set any expectations of what it would feel like to kiss Draco Malfoy, and that was probably a good thing because there was no doubt in her mind that he would have exceeded all of them. 

His kiss was as hard and demanding as he could be, forcing her to accept it, him, and every single thing he had to give— _wanted_ to give. And she did. With the taste of wine mingling in their mouths, she met each kiss fiercely. Passionately. She couldn’t help it or stop it. It was all-encompassing. They were lost and she already knew it. All she could hear was blood rushing in her ears. All she could feel were her trembling hands gripping his shirt as he tangled his hands in her hair. 

As soon as Draco drew back to take a breath, Hermione took a few of her own. One after the other. Then, she went right back to his mouth, kissing him deeply, letting her tongue explore freely. Building on it, she curled her hand around the back of his neck, touching the soft hair there, hearing the low groan coming from him that shot right down her spine.

“We should wait,” he whispered against her mouth, nipping at her bottom lip in a flash of pleasure and pain before kissing it better. “Be patient.” Another kiss as he toyed with the strap of her dress, slipping it from her shoulder. “W—” Hermione swallowed his words by crushing her mouth against his, letting herself sink into it. Into him. Deeper. Her shoulders sagged as she pressed against him, harder and harder until he pulled back again. 

“Tell me no.” His lips left hers, travelling with intent to her chin, up her jaw, then down the side of her neck, making her tense and grip the back of his hair tight in her fist. Draco groaned and it sounded like it _hurt_ . “Tell me to wait. And I _will_.” His teeth scraped the thin skin right behind her ear. 

Hermione turned her head, catching his eyes and staring right into them. Searching and finding the answers she’d spent the last two years looking for in books. Answers that had been right in her face all along, had she only taken the time to read _him_ and not his body language. Learn _him_ and not the meaning behind obscure, irrelevant positions. 

Draco shut his eyes, resting his forehead against hers, hands trembling. “ _I’m patient_.”

“I’m not.”

His eyes shot open. 

* * *

  
  


Somehow they landed on his bed in a mess of tangled limbs. Draco was everywhere all at once, knees slotted between her legs, spreading them wider, settling between them. Higher. Closer. And once she felt him, she couldn’t help but grind down on him a little. Then a little more. Then _a lot_ more when his hands travelled to her hips, gripping her, controlling her movement with quiet encouragements.

And _gods_ , Hermione thought as she shut her eyes, she could probably come from touch alone because his hands were intense— _hot._ Taste. Touch. Sight. Sound. Smell. All her senses sparked to life in an instant. It was better than she had expected. _He_ was better than she’d imagined; everything she wanted, but had no idea she _needed_. 

It didn’t help that Draco was kissing her thoroughly. Roughly. Kissing her like she hadn’t been kissed before. And she _had_ been kissed, plenty of times, but nothing like this. Draco kissed like it was all he thought about, all he needed. His tongue was hot in her mouth and his lips met hers with everything he had. _Giving_. And even as she frantically twisted the collar of his shirt in her hands and pulled him closer, he maintained the composed control. 

Everything he did was focused, _deliberate._

Draco’s mouth broke away from hers to work across her jaw, over to her chin, searing a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses down from the centre of her throat to the top of her dress. Suddenly, he pulled away and Hermione gasped in shock when he rolled them over so he was on top. His hands moved from her hips to the hem of her sundress, hiking it up bit by bit until she found herself lying before him on display. 

He stared at her for a moment, sucking in a breath. “Stay here.”

And then he was gone. 

For once in her life, Hermione followed another person’s instruction without question. She only rose up on her elbows to watch him make quick work of his trousers, unbuttoning them with several deft movements and unceremoniously dropping them to the floor. Followed by shirt. He stood before her in his pants and not much else, eyeing her with a tiny smirk as he watched her appreciate his body. He gestured for her to scoot farther onto the bed and she did, slowly, watching him as he climbed in with her. Draco eased her knickers off and tossed them somewhere Hermione couldn’t see. She laid back flat, her eyes on the ceiling, anxiously waiting to feel the pressure of his weight on her. 

But it never came.

Instead, he kissed each knee before parting them slowly. Hermione tensed when his head lowered between her open legs. “I’ve not…” His eyes lifted, meeting hers with heat and hunger and _oh_ … Now she was even _more_ nervous. “I mean, Draco, I’ve not had—”

The words died in her mouth when Draco smoothed his palms up her inner thighs. “ _Relax_.” He ran a trail of kisses up her thigh, making her shudder both at the sensation and… then in a fluttery sort of anticipation of his next move. “Trust me.”

Hermione exhaled a ragged breath. Then inhaled sharply. It wasn’t easy with her heart and mind racing, but she did just that… “Okay.”

Draco’s voice was low and intimate when she felt his breath on her. “A gentleman shouldn’t do this, Granger, but I never claimed to be one.”

The first touch of his tongue felt like a lightning strike. She almost jumped off the bed, bumping him with her hip, but Draco held her down, her legs wide, opening her up to his explorations. He took his time licking everywhere, gently pulling, nipping with tiny bites that made her quake. _“Oh gods.”_

Not quite.

All of her nerves vanished as she ran her hands through his impossibly soft hair. The self-conscious jitters bled into the background, melted away with every stroke of his tongue. His hands gripped her shaking thighs and she’d never— _no._

Hermione tried to pull away because she _could_. 

Right then. 

She _would._

But by the way he kept squeezing her thighs, holding her in place to stop her from squirming, he seemed determined to pull it out of her. 

Rip it out of her if he had to. 

The wet sounds seemed louder than the thunder that rolled outside, but Hermione was too busy sobbing his name over and over again. And even though he didn’t ask, she couldn’t help but tell him how good it felt. How good _he_ felt. 

Yes and please and _more_. 

Draco gave and gave until the inevitable drew too close to avoid or delay. It happened far before Hermione was ready, before she could warn him. That growing chant in her hits its peak, making Hermione arch off the bed and press into his mouth, shaking, swearing, trying to grasp at something to keep her tethered to the earth. 

And in the middle of it, Draco shucked off his pants, climbed back between her legs, now settling on top of her, and then…

Then he was inside, filling her, exhaling like he’d held onto his last sliver of patience as long as he possibly could and now he just… _wanted_.

 _Needed_ her.

The pace he set was brutal. Rough and eager. The sounds he made—the sounds they made together—were _intoxicating_ and overwhelming. Frantic. Shagging Draco was the equivalent of wiring new pathways in her nervous system that had been destroyed by the experience, all the while not knowing who she was going to be in the aftermath. 

But she knew something: this couldn’t be it. 

Not a one off. Nothing she could pass up.

Not when she wanted more. 

And more.

And _more._

Draco gave her everything with each deep thrust, bottoming out each time, and the low, almost painful groan he made when she clenched around him…. 

_“Fuck.”_ His word pooled in her belly like falling over the first crest of a roller coaster. She couldn’t help it, gripping him even tighter. Harder. And he gritted his teeth. “Fuck, you’re _killing_ me.”

“Don’t stop.”

Not that he would.

Not that he _could_.

Draco tangled his hands in her hair, tugging it, teaching her something about herself that she didn’t know. He used his teeth, his tongue, his hips, all of himself, as they rocked the mattress with their movement. Whispering against her skin, words like _finally_ and _Hermione_ spilled from him like a tidal wave. Affectionate words he didn’t intend to speak—not with the way he bit down on his lip to stop them from tumbling out. 

But she knew.

Hermione wasn’t sure when it’d happened or how, but her legs were wrapped around him as he fucked into her with relentless strokes. Draco was easy to hold, easy for her to lock her ankles around with no effort at all as she shifted her hips and allowed him to sink _deeper_ . He halted his frantic pace, and they both tensed from the simple act. Hermione clenched around him and… _that_ made his eyes roll back for a moment. She studied it, him, the way he responded to each simple act, and stored the information away for the next time, and the time after that, and—

“ _Damn it_.” Draco tried to back out, to prolong it, but she tightened her grip around him, locking him in. He gave her a heated look, pupils blown wide. “Are you—” 

She gave him a shaky nod. 

And with that, he started moving again, tucking his head in the crook of her neck. His pace was less punishing but harder and more determined as she held on tight and tried to breathe. It was like being swept up in a deluge of sensation and knowing she was going under, knowing she was going to drown, but it didn’t matter because they were going down together. 

_“Stop thinking.”_

Her insides twisted tighter and tighter, breath coming out in ragged gasps. Logic and reason blurred and all Hermione could think was _yes_ and _please,_ but the part of her that was still functioning realised she had no idea what she was asking for.

But Draco knew. _“Let go.”_

She arched her back, and with a shout, Hermione did as instructed.

* * *

Four Fridays later, there was an empty seat to her right.

Hermione didn’t think so hard about what it meant because she knew Draco was running late thanks to an incident at work, which had made Harry late as well.

It was Trivia Night and the questions were easy. She knew that on Good Friday in 1930, the BBC played piano music instead of reporting the news. Sea cucumbers ate with their feet. Fire rainbows were the weather phenomena that occurred when ice crystals in a cirrus cloud refracted the sun’s rays.

Hermione was collecting her winnings in free drinks for her table, and everyone was toasting to her brain when the chair next to her became occupied. She looked over at Draco, who gruffly apologised to the table for being late—as he had offered to pay for the first round last week. Harry dropped a kiss on Pansy’s cheek when he sat next to her and Hermione immediately looked to her right, arching her eyebrow. 

“Where’s _my_ kiss?” she asked quietly, smirking.

Draco leaned closer. “The kind I’d like to give you would get us both arrested for indecency.”

“Fair enough. Later?”

She felt herself flush with anticipation as his hand crept up her inner thigh. “Definitely.”

They’d agreed to keep their new relationship private and under the radar so they could enjoy each other without outside interference. It hadn’t been long, but they’d fallen into a routine of sorts. Her favourite addition to their new normal was Saturdays, when they dropped everything and Draco taught her something new. 

Oh, and he never gave her a chance to study the weekly topic in any books. 

The first Saturday, they went to see a film, which wasn’t so bad with Draco’s arm around her. It was even better with his hand between her legs, whispering in her ear to keep quiet as his fingers worked her over the edge in the nearly deserted theatre. 

The second, she learned about experiencing nature with someone else. He took her on a boat tour along the Thames, and rolled his eyes as she uttered facts she’d read at some point in her life until he got tired of listening to her prattle on and snogged her into speechlessness. 

That took a while. 

The third Saturday, Hermione learned about the simplicity that came with doing absolutely nothing. No thinking. No reading or facts, just doing whatever she wanted. Whenever she wanted. How ever many times she wanted. All over her house. Draco experienced Thai food for the first time and surprised them both by liking it. 

The fourth, he found out just how terrible of a cook Hermione was, but when she managed a poached egg under his tutelage that wasn’t entirely terrible, he congratulated her on the kitchen table.

And then again in the shower.

Tomorrow, they were set to take a train to Paris to spend the entire weekend walking around with no destination in sight. He didn’t tell her where they were staying, only that she should be ready for anything. And when she spotted a book on the city she’d never seen before, Hermione made herself proud by walking away.

Allowing herself a chance to experience it for herself.

Outside of books.

_With him._

“What time does the train leave?” Hermione asked just as the barmaid dropped off the drink that she’d ordered for him ahead of time. 

Top-shelf whisky, straight-up, one drop of water.

“Ten in the morning.” Hermione felt his hand moving higher. She liked her choice of seat, next to the wall with no one on her left. Private in a way that should have been impossible at a table full of their friends—all of which were wrapped up in their own conversations, not paying them any mind.Except Theo, who was looking at them with a raised brow. When she levelled him with a look and quickly glanced over at Susan, his face broke out in a smirk and he raised his drink in their direction.

Promising his silence. 

Hermione smiled, then looked to Draco. “Are you packed?”

“Are you?” She just blinked at him slowly, which made him smirk. “Then stay—”

“Oi! Hermione!” Ron suddenly called across the table. “I forgot. Charlie’s going to be at the Burrow tomorrow and he asked me to see if you’d be there. Did you ever make up your mind?”

Draco’s hand tensed on her thigh and she felt her face warm. “ _Oh_ , well—I’ve decided that I’m going to pass—” 

“Speaking of _dates_ —” Pansy glanced over at Theo before she clasped her hands together with a mischievous look on her face. “Draco, Daphne and I were wondering when you were going to ask her sister out on a date? You remember her sister, don’t you?” She giggled. 

“I do.” 

“So when are you going to do it?” 

Hermione had never been a jealous woman, but Pansy’s teasing tone made her recoil, made her tilt her head and glare at the witch. Draco’s hand started to retreat, but she grabbed his wrist as she turned to him, noting the way his eyes widened. 

Not in surprise, but in interest. 

They had a plan after all. 

But, for the first time, Hermione looked at her perfect plan… and tossed it out the window. 

Pansy’s smile thinned. “Granger? What’s gotten into you?” 

“Draco has,” she retorted with a matter-of-fact lightness that still had a sting. “For the last month now. So, no, he won’t be asking out _anyone’s_ sister. Got it?” 

She didn’t wait for an answer, only surged up and kissed him soundly on the lips. 

The sound of Ron choking on his beer was loud, but not loud enough to drown out Pansy’s none-too-subtle, _“Well it’s about time.”_

**Author's Note:**

> 🌻 This work is part of Fluff Fest, a Harry Potter-centered fest dedicated to fluffy themes, meet cutes and wholesome vibes.
> 
> If you’ve enjoyed this work, please show love and support to our precious content creators by leaving kudos and comments! 💌
> 
> [Feel free to check out the fest's tumblr for more updates. ](https://hpfluff-fest.tumblr.com/)
> 
> *****P.S. Additional thanks to my beta DreamsofDramione for putting up with my shit, overuse of semi-colons, and overall complaining. Oh, and for the artwork! Real MVP. Join me on tumblr!
> 
> ****P.P.S Because it was pointed out, Hermione cricket analogy about his outfit was purposefully incorrect. She doesn't know sports well and mixes cricket and golf up. I did that on purpose to slightly highlight the small detail, which Draco later brings up. My attempt at cleverness got me nowhere. *insert sad rainy meme*


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